Why am I here?
This feels a lot more familiar. I have been making and forgetting about blogs since I was a child. It must have been 8th grade, I had recently learnt about blogger and I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. The internet was new and so was the glitz that came with it. Websites weren’t simple, they were colourful, hard to navigate and exeedingly bright — the time you were there you didn’t forget that you had an internet connection.
I made a blog for my poetry. I had started to rhyme and make sense of the world around me through the medium. It was not particularly good but no first thing is bound to be good.I think I wrote the poems in the back of a school notebook. I didn’t pay much attention to it; I wrote poems for my mother and my school crushes. I did not know that one can write about their turmoil in poetry. I had grown up listening to emotional and sad music and I knew the power music usually holds over a person but I couldn’t feel it seep into me like it started to do when I grew older.
I was talking to my father about music and he had played “another brick in the wall”. I was watching the video on early youtube and I could feel my own angst towards school in it. I also understood that music is something befond the TV set. I am feeling entirely sleepy as I write this. Someone just facetimed me and the tone woke me up.
How can any writing survive in the midst of a workday? It has to. I am to only write, I am to make this my life. It already is my life, if my mind isn’t going on about the past or the future — I can’t think of anything else other than this. But what of the mind.
My mother keeps recicting this shloka from Bhagvat Gita:
Asanshayo mahabaaho, manah dunigraha chalam, abhyasen tu kauntaye, vairagyen ch grihyate.
(oh the mighty armed Arjun, the mind travels in ten directions. Practice, oh the son of kunti, only through it and perseverance can it be tamed).
I don’t want to tame it, but I don’t want to dwell in the past either. I want to be drunk on my own words — an intoxication of whose glimpses I can seek as I write something unemcumbered, or when I read Walt Whitman, when I once saw the full moon over the Indian Ocean. I couldn’t comprehend the feebleness of my mortality. The ocean is so big. I want to live close to it someday.